In Her Kitchen
by rockstar83
Summary: Some of the moments that have happened between Bones and Booth in Bones' kitchen. My first Bones fic!


**Well, here it is. I've been a loyal reader and fan of a lot of the stories here for a long time, but this is my first try writing for the fandom! My first foray into the world of Bones fic (and my first completed fic, ever!). So this is my first chance to do that old beg-for-reviews thing, which… well, you know how it goes. Enjoy!!**

The first time he was in her kitchen, he got blown up.

It wasn't the way he imagined that first visit to her apartment going. Sure, he was first and foremost concerned for her safety, but he didn't deny to himself that there was a large part of him that just wanted to be with her, in her home, in her life, as much as possible. They had danced together – their second dance, he thought, but the first one that really counted. This time there hadn't been any pretense of protecting her from the lecherous Aurora men. And while "Hot Blooded" wouldn't seem like the most romantic of songs to most, that dance meant more to him than if it had been to the most sentimental of songs. He knew for his serious, scientific Bones to let him see that side of her – singing, playing air guitar, and of course that high kick - was more personal than letting him see her cry.

And then David had called – smug, slimy asshole, looking at _his _Bones with that appraising expression on his face, lucky Booth hadn't arrested him for that alone – and broken the moment, and he suddenly felt strangely self-conscious. She was looking at him with an almost-smile, eyes bright (from their dance, he knew, not because of the asshole's call) and his mouth went suddenly and painfully dry. He needed to move away from her, just for a minute, or he would have kissed her right then. And it wasn't the time, not yet, not while someone was after her. If he kissed her, he knew, his mind would turn to jelly, and he couldn't let that happen while he was protecting her.

So he asked for a drink, and wouldn't let her get it for him. He liked the idea of making himself at home here. As he walked toward the fridge, he looked around for the briefest second, memorizing the kitchen where she stood every morning and every night. He noticed the coffee maker and the vision came into his head, unbidden, of making her coffee there – _their_ coffee – in the morning. Every morning.

Someday.

His thoughts were still on her, and him, and morning coffee, as he opened the door and everything went black.

The second time he was in her kitchen, he was dropping her off. It had been a long day in the field and she had fallen asleep on the way home. Rather than taking her back to her car at the Jeffersonian, he decided to go straight to her apartment. He expected a fight when he parked in front of her building and shook her shoulder to wake her, but instead she looked blearily around for a minute and accepted his explanation, too tired to argue.

He walked her upstairs, as his mother had taught him, and reminded her of the file she had promised to give him. He didn't really need it until the next day, but he wasn't ready yet to say goodnight. She went in first and headed straight for the kitchen. He followed behind, glancing wearily at the new refrigerator, half expecting it to attack. He accepted her offer of a glass of water, and leaned against the counter, watching her as she set up the coffee maker. She was feeling more awake after her nap, she said, and wanted to get in a few hours work before they went to interview suspects the next day. He only half listened to her talk about the strange pattern of cranial bleeding she had observed on the skull while he watched her make the coffee. The machine was complicated, all bells and whistles, and he wanted to learn how to work it. For next time.

The third time he was in her kitchen, he wasn't as eager to stay. Russ was there too, and he knew they needed some time alone together. Selfishly, he didn't appreciate having to share her, but he wouldn't stand in the way of anything that made her eyes light up like they did when she smiled at her brother. So he was making his excuses about having to go see Parker when he noticed the manuscript on the table. While her back was turned he casually flipped the first pages open. As his name jumped out at him, he was only slightly aware that Russ was still talking. He felt warm all over, and prouder of her than he had ever felt before.

As she turned toward them with their beers, he looked up at her, her face smooth and peaceful for the first time since she had recognized her mother from the Angelator, completely unaware of how strong her own grace and goodness were, and he was hit with the strongest wave of pure love that he had felt since the first time he had held Parker.

Up until then, he had truly believed that what he felt for her was just a crush, a powerful crush to be sure, but a crush all the same. They worked in close proximity, and she was brilliant and infuriating and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and it was natural that he would develop some attraction to her. But as she came toward him, her blue eyes – those _eyes _– focused on him, he knew he would love her til the day he died. But all he could say was "Girls are nice."

The fourth time he was in her kitchen, he followed her in from the living room, when they had been working on a case, so that they wouldn't have to pause their fight while she got them drinks. She was wrong, as usual – he knew in his gut that the victim's wife had killed him. He had been cheating on her and she would have gotten a huge amount of life insurance when he died, and Booth just got a bad feeling from her. But Bones was on him again about solving crimes with his gut, even though she had _seen_ him do just that at least a dozen times since they had been working together. She was going on and on about the anthropologic something-or-other of married couples and why couldn't she ever just take his word on anything? He took a big swig of the beer she handed him and grimaced, looking at the label. Who the hell bought Moroccan beer? He rolled his eyes and smoothly maneuvered around her to open the fridge again to grab himself a good old American beer.

At her protest, he could only smile at her. _You have terrible taste in beer, _he thought as she continued to glare at him, _and absolutely no faith in anything non-scientific, but so help me, I wouldn't change a single thing about you._ Done with her rant, she turned on her heel and stormed back to the living room, and he thought, _I must be a real glutton for punishment. _And he followed her out of the kitchen, more than happy to listen to whatever rant she was on now.

After that he lost count. It was only on the night when she couldn't get the coffee maker to work and he took over to keep from her from breaking the damn thing ("C'mon, Bones, let me. The coffee maker and I understand each other.") that he realized how at home he had become here. It had become their favorite hang-out place, where they inevitably ended up when the piles of paperwork they were plowing through became too much and they needed to escape the living room. One of them – almost always him – would stretch their arms and say, "I think I'll get a beer. Want one?" and the other would pretend to think for a moment and say, "I'll come with you. I could use a break anyway," and they would end up in the kitchen for the next half an hour, Booth leaning against the counter and Brennan sitting at the table. Sometimes he joined her at the table if it had been an especially long day, or if he was feeling especially unguarded about being that close to her.

While they drank their beers, they talked. He told her stories about his childhood and the pranks he used to pull that always got him sent to the principal's office. At the beginning, she would break in to offer anthropological explanations for his youthful indiscretions or his sibling rivalry with his brother, but eventually after being on the receiving end of enough _looks _she learned to just listen. Sometimes she told him about the foster homes and what she had done to get thrown out of them. The more stories she told, the more comfortable she got, until one night she actually laughed while telling him a story about getting kicked out of one home because she refused to agree with her foster father that it was, in fact, possible that aliens existed.

Eventually there would be a lull in the conversation and they would both suddenly remember that they were supposed to be working, and Brennan would take both of their glasses to the sink and rinse them while Booth would take their bottles to the recycling bin she kept in their closet. They would go back to the living room and back to work until one or both was yawning too much to concentrate, and Booth would go home and dream about kitchen counters and Brennan's smile.

And it was on one of these nights, just as Brennan was suggesting they get back to work, that a string in Booth snapped. He would later wonder if it was the way she had thrown back her head to laugh at one of his stories, in a way he had never seen her do before, or if his body had just suddenly reached its limit on unrequited love and something had to give. Mostly, though, he just couldn't wait anymore to touch her.

And so when she took their glasses to the sink, instead of taking care of the bottles as usual, he stood behind her, looking at her strong back and the curve of her neck as she looked down into the sink as he acknowledged to himself that he was about to change everything.

As he stepped toward her, she sensed him behind her and turned toward him just as his hand closed around her upper arm and his other hand came to caress her cheek. He saw surprise in her eyes as she looked up at him, surprise that gave way to understanding and fear and something else he couldn't quite identify as he held her gaze. He barely registered the water still running in the sink as he ran his thumb softly against her cheek while she looked into his eyes, giving her time to process what he was about to do. He wanted her there with him.

They stood like that for thirty seconds that felt like thirty minutes to Booth until he felt her hands, damp from washing the glasses, move to his sides. She looked down for a moment, suddenly self-conscious under his eyes, before steadying herself and looking up at him again. Her mouth turned up in the slightest smile.

He almost moaned when his lips touched hers, releasing three years of built-up sexual tension. Booth knew kissing Brennan would be magical, but he had never known it would be like this. He didn't know that kissing her – just _kissing_ her – would feel better than sex had ever felt with any other woman. He didn't know how warm she would be, or how sweet, or how she tightly she would wrap her arms around his neck, or how softly would move her mouth against his. Somehow, though, it didn't surprise him that their mouths had been made to fit together. Somehow he had always suspected.

The last time he ever stood in Bones' kitchen, Booth couldn't help but feel sad. He stood in front of the fridge and shivered involuntarily, thinking for the thousandth time what would have happened if he had left her get him the juice. Preferring more pleasant memories, he ran his hand over the table where she had sat so many times, smiling up at him. He touched the faucet and remembered their first kiss being interrupted by the overflowing sink. And he smiled as he ran his hand over the counter, remembering some _especially_ good times they'd had there…

Those days were gone now. They would never spend another night together in this kitchen, and he knew he would miss them.

He turned when he heard someone behind him and found her staring at him, amused. "Do you two need to be alone?" she asked, cocking her head.

He rolled his eyes at her and leaned against the counter, just as he had done so many times before. "Just remembering. We had some good times in here."

"I won't deny that," she said, walking toward him and leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his lips. "Now come make yourself useful. Everything is in the truck except the coffee maker. The box is too big. Maybe I should just leave it…"

"No, you have to bring it!" he said pleadingly.

"But Booth, you already _have_ a perfectly good coffee maker," she said disbelievingly. "We don't need two."

"It has…sentimental value," he said, knowing she wouldn't understand.

Sure enough, she looked at him doubtfully. "It's… a _coffee maker_."

"Oh, Bones," he said with an exaggerated sigh as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "I still have so much to teach you."

"And I you," she said as he led her out of the kitchen. "Like how illogical it is to form attachments to kitchen appliances..."

He laughed, pausing to turn off the lights and look around one last time before turning to leave. Their laughter echoed for a moment, and then there was only silence.


End file.
